The man cupped the hair brush in his hand and turned toward the bus window for a private evaluation of his reflection in the glass. He smoothed his hair, then began on his mustache, thick and coarse as straw. Because it was the same pale shade as eyebrow and eyelash, it created a permanent impression of surprise on his face. He wore a brown leather jacket too wide in the shoulders, and on both hands he wore chunky gold rings.

He slipped the brush into a coat pocket and pulled out a scuffed flip phone that he opened and closed, opened and closed as his rings glinted in the sunlight. A second man took the empty seat next to the first. The bus was quiet except for the phone’s staccato snap.

Holman Road, 2020. View from a bus.

“That’s some jewelry you got there,” said the second man. “What are they? Dragons?”

“Nah, man,” said the first, putting the phone away and holding out both hands. “This is a panther, this is a bat, and this is onyx–all from Value Village.”

“I’ve never seen jewelry like that,” the second said.

“You gotta check out their jewelry case. Sometimes there’s nothing but junk, but then you find things like this,” and he shaped the three ringed fingers into devil horns. “I’m an Ozzy Osbourne fan.”